Remade
by justalotoffeelings
Summary: A month on from Loki's attempted take-over of Earth, Clint is still having nightmares. It takes the unwanted intervention of his team and some fairly stupid risk-taking on his part to give some closure to the situation. It starts with drunken antics.
1. Chapter One

Chapter One

They never planned on getting drunk, actually, despite Natasha's thoughts on the subject. It wasn't something they sat down and strategized. They were just three guys out on the town on a Saturday night. Three guys just looking for a couple of drinks.

A demi-god, a SHIELD marksman, and Tony Stark.

They'd found a cosy little pub off the main road, where most of the drinkers had been too far gone to recognise the billionaire or notice the fact that one of the party was apparently Shakespeare. Nice place, really. Good tequila. Clint would know, having had more shots than he could count on both hands and possibly feet. He'd lost track of the exact number once he'd gotten up on the countertop.

"Natasha said you couldn't dance," Tony said quite seriously, balancing his glass on his forehead.

"We-ell, t'll teach you not t'bel_ieve_ 'er, amiright?" Clint responded just as seriously, standing on one leg with his arms waving about in the air. Not quite dancing, to be absolutely honest, but as close to it as anyone in the pub could get. "_Amiright_?"

"Aye, comrade!" Thor boomed from where he sat propped against a chair. "Thou art indeed most gifted in the field of the dance."

Clint bowed theatrically and lost his footing on the counter, knocking over someone's glass in the process of righting himself. Everything went downhill from there.

"Hey fuck you, Fairy Princess!" the drinker growled, glaring at the smashed remains of his drink. "I was enjoying that!"

The archer crouched down on his haunches in front of the drinker, looking remorseful. "Now look, sir, I'm very sorry f'your loss, an' when I say sorry I mean actu'lly, abs'lutely sorry, an'–"

The man grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him backwards off the counter. There was the deafening sounds of glass shattering, and the barkeep shrieked in outrage.

Thor was on his feet in an instant. "Friend, that was uncalled for," he rumbled, swaying slightly where he stood.

"And you too Goldilocks. Fuck you as well."

Tony laughed hysterically at that. "_Goldilocks_! That's a good one, Thor. I might use it."

The god of thunder frowned at the drinker. "I think thou needst to calm down, frie–"

"And fuck your mother!"

"_How dare thee_!" Thor roared. In a single stride he was beside the man and had grabbed him round the throat with one hand, lifting him off his stool. "How _dare_ thee bring my mother into this!"

Tony took a swig from his second glass, grinning. "Whoo, you're in for it now, buddy."

"I'll have thee know, mortal, that my mother is the fairest, most divine woman to grace the nine realms. Thou art not worthy to even speak of her, thou troll-grubbing, Nifl-dwelling–"

"Hoooo, boy," Tony crowed.

"–yqelk-dying, dung-eating djwehr-sire!"

"Yeah!" Clint yelled in outrage, sticking his head above the counter top. "Asshole!"

The man flailed in Thor's grip, his face turning an interesting shade of purple. The blonde giant released him, letting him slump back down onto his bar stool, gasping for breath. Thor folded his arms, waiting for an apology.

The drinker coughed once, put a hand to his throat, then looked up at Thor. The demi-god smiled expectantly.

"Get 'em boys!" the drinker bawled.

Clint could never quite recall what had happened after that. He remembered vaulting over the counter and joining the fight with the kind of enthusiasm that only a drunk man can muster. He remembered the barkeep throwing his hands up and retreating to a back room where, no doubt, he had a few drinks himself. He remembered Tony, unsteady on his feet, throwing wild punches that only met their mark occasionally. He remembered the fight spilling out onto the street, and Thor turtling about five of the drinkers around on his back, trying to shake them off. He _possibly_ remembered grabbing a handful of darts on his way out, and could _almost_ recall having an unholy amount of fun dancing around in the fray aiming for peoples' arses.

He knew it wasn't a good sign when he woke up in Stark Tower with a homeless man beside him.

"Afternoon," the mad said pleasantly. "Name's Burt."

"Howdy," Clint groaned, flinging an arm across his eyes to block out the sun. "God, Tony, couldn't have put some curtains in your stupid glass tower, could you?"

There was a sigh from behind the couch. "It's tinted, moron. Voice controlled. Jarvis won't let me."

Jarvis' clear, cultured voice sounded through the speakers. "I'm sorry, sir, but you're drunk, and I do seem to recall you installing a protocol in which I am never to hand over control of Stark Tower when you are inebriated."

"I would never."

"You were drunk at the time, sir."

"Ah." There was a pause, and then Tony hoisted himself up and over onto the couch, sliding down next to Thor, who was still sleeping peacefully. "Where's Captain Scold?"

"Steve Rogers is currently on the phone with Director Fury. It would seem they are discussing your late-night escapades, sir."

"Well shit," Tony said. "That's sure to end well."

"Indeed, sir."

"I can hear the snark in your voice, Jarvis. Watch it. I'll reprogram you."

"Certainly, sir."

Clint laughed, holding his aching head in his hands. "He learnt from the best, Stark. I'd be flattered, if I were you." He struggled into a sitting position and squinted around the room. "Jarvis, where's Natasha?"

"Agent Romanoff is currently sorting out the paperwork involved with bringing an unauthorised civilian into Stark Tower."

"What unauthorised– oh, is that you?" Clint asked Burt.

The homeless man grinned, showcasing an impressive lack of teeth. "That's me."

"How'd you even get up here?"

"You guys invited me."

The archer shrugged and put his feet up on the table. "Can't say I remember doing that, but I'm gonna take your word for it."

There was a metallic hiss. The elevator doors slid open and Natasha stormed into the room. Clint sank lower in his seat, hoping she'd forgotten he was here. She hadn't.

"Agent Barton, a word with you." Her voice lashed through the air like a metaphorical whip, almost as dangerous as the real thing. Clint winced and glanced over at Tony. The billionaire made a slicing gesture across his throat, smirking. Clint gave him the finger.

Natasha stood at the top of the stairs leading down to the sunken lounge. She didn't look impressed. In fact, she looked like she wanted to take someone's head off. Clint approached and stopped directly in front of her, one step lower. They were the same height.

"Agent Romanoff," he said.

"Agent Barton."

There was a tense pause, broken only by the sound of Thor's snoring. Natasha's intense green eyes narrowed imperceptibly. That was the only warning Clint got.

Within the space of a couple of seconds Natasha had pounced, caught him in a headlock, and sent them both tumbling down into the lounge, grinning wickedly as she fell.

It was no small wonder that Steve almost had a heart attack when he walked into the room; Natasha's legs were wrapped around Clint's torso, her arms holding his head fast, completely immobilising him. It must have looked a little strange. Tony was perched on the back of the couch, laughing at Clint's failed endeavours to get free. A moment later the Captain was laughing as well, the words he'd been about to say forgotten.

"Don't just stand there," Clint choked. "She's killing me, Rogers. The Russians are gonna win if you don't do something drastic. For _God's sake_ man, where's your patriotism?"

"Wrong war, Barton," Steve chuckled. "The Russians were an ally."

Clint made an attempt to twist the Widow's arm away from his windpipe. Natasha's thighs tightened crushingly around his ribcage. "_Jesus_," he gasped, grinning.

"Guys, c'mon, you know what Fury said about role-playing weird sexual fantasies in the lounge room." Bruce had slipped in through the stairwell, his arms full of papers, and was watching them with a dry smile on his face. "And anyway, he wants to see you three and your new friend." Bruce jerked his chin in Burt's direction; he'd fallen asleep beside the god of thunder.

"Fury's here?" asked Tony.

"I was meant to tell you he was coming," Steve said apologetically. "I got distracted."

Natasha's grip tightened one last time, almost cutting off Clint's air supply. "Say you're sorry for being a drunken idiot and putting the safety of the team at risk."

"Thor and Stark were there too!" he wheezed indignantly. "And anyway, if Tony wants to let homeless men into his Tower I don't see why he shouldn–"

"_Say it_."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry for being a charming bastard and putting the safety of the team at risk."

Natasha released him. "Good enough." She rolled to her feet and arched her back, smiling. "Now go say it to Fury. Hopefully he'll only ground you for six years."

The archer clambered to his feet with a little less grace. "Oh, everything'll be fine. I'll just grovel for a bit. Remind him of all my good qualities, offer my eternal servitude or something. That always works. Fury's in love with me, didn't you know? Can't say what he'll do to Stark and Thor, though."

"Go now, before he insists upon the eternal servitude," Steve suggested, reaching over to wake up Burt and the god of thunder. "I don't think he's in a very good mood."

"Surprise," Clint groaned, and made for the elevator.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The nightmare was as vivid as every other night. Tasha stood in front of him, every fibre in her suit, every individual hair picked out by his hyper-sensitive dream vision. That pissed Clint right off; if he was going to be terrorised almost to the point of breaking down, he'd appreciate it if it wasn't in full fucking HD quality.

He was aware of himself moving backwards, blocking a jab aimed for his throat. His bow spun out of his hands. It fell to the floor with a dull clatter. Then he was beside her, anticipating the flow of her movements, as familiar to him as his own. A knife appeared in his hand, glinting brightly in the dim light. Tasha dodged the first swipe, locked her arms with his to prevent him going for another. He grabbed a handful of her hair, disengaging a moment later as she sank her teeth into his forearm. The pain registered, but in the dream it was unimportant, insignificant. He knew what came next.

Somehow he got lucky, or Natasha's technique slipped. It varied from night to night. The end result was always the same. As the Widow lunged for the knife Clint wove around her, spinning on his heel and sinking the blade into her back, below her shoulder blades. Inside his own brain he was screaming.

She went rigid with a low cry. Clint withdrew the knife, now dripping red, and let her drop to the floor. She raised herself up onto her elbows and turned to look at him, her eyes wide.

Then Thor's brother was behind him, a hand on his shoulder. Clint could sense him smile. He wanted nothing more than to rip the grin from his face.

_Go to her_, he whispered in the archer's ear.

And Clint did, and he stood over her as the blood drained from her body, dripping through the lattice of the walkway. Loki waited till she was pale and unmoving before releasing him from the spell, so he could fall to his knees beside her and try desperately to staunch the wound. He was covered in blood, Tasha's blood, Coulson's blood, blood of his workmates. There was nothing he could do. She was already gone.

Loki had him round the throat before he could tear out his eyes. _I thank you for your service,_ the bastard said, and threw him into the open air.

Clint woke gasping, his fingers digging into his palms painfully. He lay where he was for a moment, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering, trying to forget the image of Tasha bleeding out in his arms.

"Fucking asshole," he breathed. He rolled onto his side and sat up, disentangling himself from the sheets. He'd fallen off the bed and hit the side table, if the shattered remains of his lamp were anything to judge by. Something pricked sharply against his leg; a shard of the light globe. What a mess.

Clint sighed and brought his knees up, folding his arms and burying his head in them. If he didn't get a good night's sleep soon he'd do something dangerous. Well, more dangerous than usual.

"Are you alright?"

He started, looking for the source of the voice. Bruce stood in the doorway, still dressed in jeans and a sweater. He hadn't even heard the door slide open. The archer forced a smile. "Yeah. Bizarre bondage dream. Nothing I can't handle." He stood up and started piling the sheets back onto the bed. Maybe he could sneak down to the med bay and steal some pills – something powerful enough to knock him out for at least a day. If that didn't work, there was always Tony's stash of complimentary hotel alcohol.

"Still feeling guilty, huh?"

Clint's head jerked back around to stare at the scientist. Bruce was watching him steadily.

"Guess so," Clint frowned, turning his back to collect the broken pieces of the lamp, hoping Bruce would take it as his cue to leave. Jagged glass shards cut into the undersides of his bare feet. He liked the scientist, but he liked his privacy even more. Years of working for SHIELD has made sure of that.

"Natasha knows you looked at the file," Bruce said.

Clint froze, reaching for another shard. "How the hell would she know that? How the hell would _you_ know that?"

Bruce shrugged, still watching him thoughtfully. "Tony told us."

"_Stark_? Backstabbing son of a bitch. Never trust a man with a beard that pointy, that's my new motto." He dumped the shards on the table and turned back to face Bruce. "So why did he– wait, _us_? He told the whole lot of you?"

"He was concerned."

"Tony Stark, _concerned_, about me? Pull the other one." Clint's eyes had hardened. "What does he want?"

"Don't be an idiot, Barton. He was warning us. We were _all_ worried for a bit there. You seemed a little…self-destructive. You were almost suicidal."

"I'm always almost suicidal."

"No, you're always stupid. There's a difference. Tony thought it best for us to handle the problem, rather than get Fury involved, and to do that he figured we needed to know."

"That's not his call," Clint shot back. "That was private. And anyway, it's not like you guys are ganging up on Tony for _his_ self-destructive behaviour. He's a bloody hypocrite."

"You shouldn't have looked at the report," Bruce continued, ignoring him. "What did it accomplish?"

"Don't start with that crap, Banner. I got enough of it from the psych team. They were very nice about it, very rational, very professional. But nothing they said changed the fact that I killed twenty-seven SHIELD agents. _Twenty-seven_, Bruce. That's what the file said, under my name. There's no erasing that, not from my mind, not from anyone else's. People look at me differently, now, you know? They go out of their way to avoid me. I walk down the corridor and I can see it in their eyes, that I'm _that one guy who killed Jacob_, or _that operative who got possessed and helped almost take over the world_. And I agree with that look in their eyes, because it's true. I knew some of those agents. And, you know, it's a bit suspicious, isn't it? All Tasha did was hit me a few times in the head and suddenly I'm a free man again? Suddenly the problem disappears? Doesn't sound right."

Bruce shook his head. "You can't really believe that."

"_I don't know_," he cried. "I can't trust my own mind anymore. That– _bastard_, was in there for so long, and I haven't got a clue what he fucked with. He knew– _knows_– _everything_, Bruce. _Everything_ about me. I could feel him sifting through my memories." He ran a hand through his hair. He remembered the sensation, the horrible realisation that this psychopath was in control of his brain. _Unmade_, he'd told Natasha. Unmade and broken. "And Coulson–"

"You cannot blame yourself for Coulson. That was Loki's doing, not yours."

"But I _do_. I _have_ to. In my position would you honestly be able to absolve yourself of his death? Of anyone's death? It doesn't matter that I didn't personally stab him; I would just have easily have done it if Loki had ordered me to. I should've been there to stop him."

"Don't torment yourself with hypotheticals. There was nothing you could have done," Bruce said.

"_I should've found something! I should've killed myself first_!" Clint growled in frustration and kicked the side table as hard as he could. He heard something snap in his foot. "_Fuck_, ow." He dropped down on the bed, suddenly exhausted, and put his head in his hands. He was so tired. "I'm sorry, Bruce," he said. "I'm just a little bit broken at the moment."

The scientist didn't respond for so long that Clint thought he'd left. Then–

"I know how you feel."

Clint looked at him sideways.

"The other guy…" Bruce paused, then walked over and sat down on the mattress beside him. "I've hurt people I love before. The guilt–" The scientist broke off and lowered his gaze. "It tears you apart. We've been through it before, Clint. All of us have. That's the only reason Tony did it." He smiled. "We're a team, remember?"

Clint laughed humourlessly and let himself flop back onto the bed. "Yeah, well, this explains why Natasha was watching me so closely. Goddamn Stark."

"Everything okay in here?"

Clint sat up abruptly. Now _Steve_ was standing at the door, a horrible sympathetic look on his face. Sly bastard must have heard everything. "Oh my _God_," Clint yelled, grabbing a pillow and flinging it at him. The Captain dodged it easily. "Get the whole team in here, why not. Family meeting up in Hawkeye's room, crisis brewing! Come on guys, time to invade Barton's privacy. Avengers fucking assemble!"

Steve raised his hands and retreated into the hall, stooping to throw the pillow back. It landed directly where Clint had picked it up from. "I'm leaving, I'm leaving!"

Once the Captain's footsteps had receded Bruce sighed and got to his feet. "Well, I better get going too. Try and get some sleep, Clint. You're up early in the morning. Rookie training; should be fun."

"Don't remind me," Clint groaned.

The scientist chuckled. "Better than being grounded for six years." He clapped Clint on the shoulder and turned to leave.

Clint hesitated. The guy had just listened to him rambling about his problems for a good fifteen minutes, and given him more closure than the whole of the psych team combined. Clint was an unrefined asshole, but he wasn't ungrateful. What was the sort of thing you said after something like _that_? Ah, fuck it. "Wait, Bruce," he blurted. "I, uh…I'm pretty shit at this touchy-feely business, but I…thanks. For listening. Maybe I won't kill Stark after all."

That rare, lopsided smile flashed across the scientist's face. "You're welcome, Barton. I mean it. Any time you want to talk, you know where to find me."

Clint waited till the doors had slid shut behind the scientist before burying himself in the sheets again. The others teased him about his "nest". The reality was that the idea quite appealed to him. With his view obscured by the safety of the cocoon and his mind slightly eased, it didn't take him long to fall back to sleep.

He got at least an hour's undisturbed rest before the nightmares returned.


	3. Chapter Three

_Okay, so I've realised that Twilight wasn't set in Maine (sorry, wasn't a big fan of the books and as such didn't pay much attention), but if I try to fix it now it will ruin the dialogue so I will fix it later and I'm sorry if I offended anyone!_

Chapter Three

"Punch me."

The recruit looked at Tony gloomily. "Surely we've done this enough times, sir? Can't we try something else?"

Tony rolled up his sleeves and widened his stance, waving the recruit over. "Come at me, kid. I'm ready for you this time."

The new recruit, a broad-shoulder young man named Julian, sighed wearily. Then, in a blur of motion, he feinted to the right, ducked under Tony's answering blow, and jabbed him in the stomach. Tony swore and put a hand to his ribs. He wasn't quite fast enough to stop Julian from flipping him onto his back. He lay there for a moment, dazed.

"Okay," he said eventually. "Miss Potts, can you book me in for a training session with Natasha?"

Pepper, who was enjoying her day off by watching her employer get his ass handed to him by a kid, managed to keep a straight face as she pulled out her electronic organiser.

On the other side of the training compound Thor was doing only marginally better. He'd surrendered his armour and hammer at the door and was finding that brute strength wasn't the best weapon to use against five of SHIELD's most agile recruits. They were much too fast for him to hit with a direct attack, and as the minutes passed he was getting more and more irritated.

Only Clint was in his element. Bored out of his mind, but in his element nonetheless. Fury had put him to good use over at the firing range, supervising and giving pointers to the newest agents. For the most part they were obedient, obliging students. Not very interesting. Clint decided to make his own fun.

"Alright, kiddies, you're getting pretty good," he announced, dropping down from his perch on the railing. "How about something more challenging?"

"What were you thinking?" one of the recruits, Louisa, asked. She looked dubious.

"First one to hit the bullseye blindfolded gets a round of drinks on me."

"Done," said the man next to her, reloading his pistol. His name was Jeff, and Clint didn't like him much. He got the impression that Jeff thought a great deal of Jeff, and expected everyone else to think a great deal of Jeff as well. The archer knew of only one person who could have an ego that large and still be tolerable, and they currently weren't on speaking terms. Maybe not the best example, then. Tony Stark wasn't comparable to anyone anyway.

The group lined up along the range, using their SHIELD regulation belts as make-shift blindfolds. There had been a unanimous decision to exclude Clint from the competition, which he thought was a bit unfair, really. He leant against the railing, pulling up his earmuffs.

It didn't take long for someone to hit inside the inner ring. Declan was the first, firing a little up and to the left. The others followed in quick succession.

"Too easy," Clint said. "I want dead-centre."

That took longer. Declan felt cheated and refused to participate. A couple of the others decided to give up and watch instead. Most of them were hitting within the inner ring now, but it was only after a good five minutes that Jeff eventually clipped the bullseye.

His roar of success made Clint's upper lip curl. "Took you long enough," he said, folding his arms. He _really_ didn't want to buy the guy a round of drinks.

Jeff looked at him incredulously. "Are you serious? That shot's, like, almost impossible."

"Mm." His fingers were itching to teach the moron a lesson, but Marcus, another of the recruits, stepped in first.

"Shut up, Jeff," he said, hitting him on the shoulder. "Don't be stupid."

But Jeff's face had taken on that look that Clint had been just _waiting_ for. "Now, hang on a second," he said, twirling his pistol around his finger like an idiot. "I don't think it's fair that Agent Barton here gets to issue all the challenges."

"That's true," Clint said, nodding agreeably.

"He's the World's Greatest Marksman, isn't he? No target he can't hit?"

Clint grinned his predator's grin. "Now you're just making me blush."

Jeff turned to him, failing to notice the gleam in the archer's eyes. "How about this, sir. That round of drinks you owe me says you can't put a bullet through the bullet hole I made. _Directly_ through the bullet hole."

"Aw, come on," Louisa began, "that's ridi–"

"Challenge accepted."

Clint pushed himself away from the fence and threw down his earmuffs, pulling his own pistol from its holster. The recruits stood in a clump to one side, re-buckling their belts, as he took up position behind the barricade. Half of them didn't seem to believe he'd said yes. The other half were watching carefully. He raised the gun, eyes narrowed.

The first shot went clean through the hole, splintering the edges.

The recruits erupted into disbelieving cheers. Clint smiled again at that. He didn't make a habit of showing off, but when he did, he did it in style. "Well, I guess we're even then, buddy," he said to Jeff, whose expression had gone sour. "Buy everybody a round next time you get a free hour, would you?"

"Agent Barton. Working hard, I see."

Clint grimaced. Fury had appeared silently beside the range, wearing his usual black long-coat. Investigating the Director's room was high on Clint's to-do list. He fully expected to find row upon row of the same coat hanging neatly inside the wardrobe. "I try my best."

"Playtime's over. Team meeting in the War Room." With that Fury turned on his heel and stalked away.

"What? Why?" Clint jogged after him, calling over his shoulder for the recruits to keep drilling. "Sir?"

"Not here, Barton."

"That bad, huh?"

The Director didn't reply.

Clint grabbed his bow and pack as they passed the benches, slinging the latter over his shoulder. Then they were out of the training compound, striding along the wide, white corridors of the SHIELD building, heading for the elevators. Thor squeezed through the doors just as they were sliding closed. The demi-god appeared to have forgotten his irritation and had a huge grin plastered across his face.

"Director Fury, your recruits are indeed most talented. I have not been beaten so thoroughly in many years!"

"Congratulations," Fury said dryly. "Where's Stark?"

"Miss Potts is assisting him in putting on his jacket. Methinks the man of iron will be feeling the bruises of his training session on the morrow."

The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open, admitting them into a short passageway that ended in enormous steel doors engraved with the SHIELD logo. Two security guards (the dumb but impressive type, Clint noted, hired for their remarkable resemblance to small immovable mountains) flanked them. As Fury appeared they snapped to attention and turned to the doors, which opened silently and spilled blue light into the hall.

Clint liked the War Room. It brought out the dramatic in him. The curved, glowing holographic screens looked like something straight out of a Mission Impossible movie, the rounded conference table a throwback to the spy movies he'd loved as a kid. _Spy movies_. He chuckled softly to himself.

As they entered the room a separate screen winked into existence above the table. Steve, Bruce and Natasha appeared, all seated on the lounge back in Stark Tower.

"What's happened, Fury?" Steve asked, his super serious ready-to-defend-my-country face on.

"Yeah, Fury, I was on a roll there." Tony walked gingerly into the War Room. "Those kids didn't know what hit them. Sent them crying home to their mamas."

Fury ignored him automatically and braced both hands on the table. "Alright, team. We've received word of a new threat in Maine–"

Tony snorted. "Maine? Nothing ever happens in Maine."

"Twilight happened in Maine," Clint pointed out. "Let me guess, Hairy McClary and Sparklebot are fighting again, and we've been called to intervene before somebody gets hurt."

"Nah, they sorted that out ages ago. Jacob imprinted on Bella's kid."

"No way. That's fucking disgusting."

"Guys, focus," said Steve, looking a little lost. "What kind of threat are we talking about?"

Fury shrugged. "The usual. A rogue AIM agent was experimenting with some kind of radiation. You can imagine how that turned out for him." He looked up at the screen. "We could use your help with this, actually, Banner."

Bruce nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face. Clint knew how much the scientist appreciated any opportunity to be useful without involving the other guy.

"What powers does the enemy possess?" Thor asked. "Is he very dangerous?"

"Extremely, from what we can tell. There's footage. He's a teleporter."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," said Tony. "Anything else?"

Fury gestured to one of the nearby holographs, navigating quickly through a pop-up menu with a wave of his hands till the screen displayed a square of grainy black-and-white security feed. Clint picked out the date from the top right-hand corner; today, not one hour earlier. SHIELD was nothing if not in the loop.

The footage had been enlarged in an effort to make it clearer, but it was still difficult to make out what was happening. As far as Clint could tell he was looking at the interior of a coffee shop of some kind, watching as the customers went about their usual business. Then in the corner of the screen a figure appeared from nowhere and pulled something from his coat. A gun, Clint thought, until it started glowing. Fury froze the image.

Clint frowned. "Jesus, what is that?"

"Well, it _was_ a pistol at some point. We assume it was affected by the radiation on a molecular level, same as he was. Doesn't shoot bullets anymore, that's for sure."

The tape resumed and the team watched as the figure raised the gun. There were three flashes of white light, and three people dropped to the ground. The remaining occupants of the coffee shop fled out the door, mouths open in silent screams. Two more flashes, two more bodies. Then the figure disappeared.

"Some kind of electric impulse?" Tony guessed. "There's a slight residual glow where the shots hit."

Fury nodded. "The charge is temperamental, though. Sometimes it's lethal, sometimes not."

"How many casualties?" asked Natasha.

"Three in the coffee shop, five more on the street. He went off the grid after that, but we traced his energy signature to a nearby shipping yard."

"Does he have an agenda?"

"Not that we know of."

Clint grinned. No agenda meant no pulled punches. "You have no idea how happy that makes me."

Even through the screen he could see Tasha roll her eyes.


End file.
